CHAPTER IX.“Blessings be with them, and eternal praise,Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares.”A strong friendship sprang up between Robert and Charlie Walker, unusual in its warmth, and surprising, as the two men were totally different in taste and character, and as there was considerable disparity in their years.Charlie Walker was a man of many friends, for he loved the world, yet of them all, none was, perhaps, so dear as this young friend. Robert was a man of few friendships, for he was as reserved as the other was open-hearted.Scarcely a week passed that did not see them together. Charlie was never well from the time he had the first attack of indigestion, though he was able to be at his office most of the time, and still kept his hearty, healthy appearance. His hand-clasp was as strong, his laugh as infectious as ever, but there was a strained look about his eyes, which told of suffering borne in silence.Robert and Meg, who went often together, commented on it to each other, but his wife remained ignorant of the real seriousness of his condition, which was what he desired. She still kept up her music and her club duties, at his request. It was evident that the man, in his great unselfishness, was determined to shield her from worry or trouble, while there was life in his body.One day Meg and Robert went to see him, for they had learned that he had been unable to be at his office for a week. When they reached the home, they found Mrs. Walker softly playing the piano. Greeting them, she asked sweetly, “Do you want to see Charlie? Just go upstairs. He will besoglad to see you. I will come up as soon as I finish my practicing.”In silence they ascended the stairs and stepped to the open door of the bed-chamber. Charlie was propped up in bed with pillows, and they were both shocked at the change in his appearance, wrought by his illness of the past week. Gertie was curled up awkwardly by the foot of the bed, and her eyes were big and woe-begone.“Well, well, young people,” he called heartily when he saw them, “this is all the medicine I need!”At the word “medicine,” Gertie started, and going over to a stand where there was an array of bottles, said, “It’s time for your powder, Papa.”He made a slight grimace, and addressing himself to Meg, said: “Now did you ever see such an unnatural child? Every time I really begin to enjoy myself, she comes and stuffs some vile medicine down my throat!”The child’s eyes were solemn as she said, “But, Papa, you have to take it. The doctor told me not to neglect it.”“Well, little Miss Literal, I see you are ‘she who must be obeyed,’ so I’ll take it. Though I can’t imagine why I need anything else when I have these two youngsters to look at.”Meg turned to Robert and said, “Delia isn’t the only descendant of Brian Boru in these parts, you see.” There was a little laugh at her remark, but it was only half-hearted, for both Robert and she were too much grieved at the change in Charlie to enjoy any joke.He tried to be gay and natural, but after each effort he sank back among the pillows exhausted. As he laid there, a light of exquisite enjoyment came over his features, for the strains of the piano floated up from below.Ada was playing something in a minor key, and the strange, sweet notes were so in harmony with the sadness of the occasion, that Meg was obliged to rise suddenly and go to the window, that Charlie might not see the tears in her eyes.There was no sound in the room till the notes died away, and then turning to Robert, Charlie said: “Did you ever hear anything like that? Her music is an indication of her soul.”Just then Ada came noiselessly into the room, and going over to the bed, asked gayly of her husband: “Did you like that piece? I think I will play it at the recital next week.”“I would,” he replied, without a break in his voice, looking at her adoringly; and then, to Robert and Meg, who had exchanged glances, and were preparing to leave: “Must you go now? You will come again, won’t you?—Come soon—” he added, in a voice he tried to make expressionless.After they were outside Meg could contain her grief no longer, and began to sob. “Oh, can’tyousee that he is dying?” she asked.“I fear so,” was the grave rejoinder.“And after he is gone, some one will have to shake that woman and say, ‘Wake up,—Charlie is dead!’”
“Blessings be with them, and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares.”
A strong friendship sprang up between Robert and Charlie Walker, unusual in its warmth, and surprising, as the two men were totally different in taste and character, and as there was considerable disparity in their years.
Charlie Walker was a man of many friends, for he loved the world, yet of them all, none was, perhaps, so dear as this young friend. Robert was a man of few friendships, for he was as reserved as the other was open-hearted.
Scarcely a week passed that did not see them together. Charlie was never well from the time he had the first attack of indigestion, though he was able to be at his office most of the time, and still kept his hearty, healthy appearance. His hand-clasp was as strong, his laugh as infectious as ever, but there was a strained look about his eyes, which told of suffering borne in silence.
Robert and Meg, who went often together, commented on it to each other, but his wife remained ignorant of the real seriousness of his condition, which was what he desired. She still kept up her music and her club duties, at his request. It was evident that the man, in his great unselfishness, was determined to shield her from worry or trouble, while there was life in his body.
One day Meg and Robert went to see him, for they had learned that he had been unable to be at his office for a week. When they reached the home, they found Mrs. Walker softly playing the piano. Greeting them, she asked sweetly, “Do you want to see Charlie? Just go upstairs. He will besoglad to see you. I will come up as soon as I finish my practicing.”
In silence they ascended the stairs and stepped to the open door of the bed-chamber. Charlie was propped up in bed with pillows, and they were both shocked at the change in his appearance, wrought by his illness of the past week. Gertie was curled up awkwardly by the foot of the bed, and her eyes were big and woe-begone.
“Well, well, young people,” he called heartily when he saw them, “this is all the medicine I need!”
At the word “medicine,” Gertie started, and going over to a stand where there was an array of bottles, said, “It’s time for your powder, Papa.”
He made a slight grimace, and addressing himself to Meg, said: “Now did you ever see such an unnatural child? Every time I really begin to enjoy myself, she comes and stuffs some vile medicine down my throat!”
The child’s eyes were solemn as she said, “But, Papa, you have to take it. The doctor told me not to neglect it.”
“Well, little Miss Literal, I see you are ‘she who must be obeyed,’ so I’ll take it. Though I can’t imagine why I need anything else when I have these two youngsters to look at.”
Meg turned to Robert and said, “Delia isn’t the only descendant of Brian Boru in these parts, you see.” There was a little laugh at her remark, but it was only half-hearted, for both Robert and she were too much grieved at the change in Charlie to enjoy any joke.
He tried to be gay and natural, but after each effort he sank back among the pillows exhausted. As he laid there, a light of exquisite enjoyment came over his features, for the strains of the piano floated up from below.
Ada was playing something in a minor key, and the strange, sweet notes were so in harmony with the sadness of the occasion, that Meg was obliged to rise suddenly and go to the window, that Charlie might not see the tears in her eyes.
There was no sound in the room till the notes died away, and then turning to Robert, Charlie said: “Did you ever hear anything like that? Her music is an indication of her soul.”
Just then Ada came noiselessly into the room, and going over to the bed, asked gayly of her husband: “Did you like that piece? I think I will play it at the recital next week.”
“I would,” he replied, without a break in his voice, looking at her adoringly; and then, to Robert and Meg, who had exchanged glances, and were preparing to leave: “Must you go now? You will come again, won’t you?—Come soon—” he added, in a voice he tried to make expressionless.
After they were outside Meg could contain her grief no longer, and began to sob. “Oh, can’tyousee that he is dying?” she asked.
“I fear so,” was the grave rejoinder.
“And after he is gone, some one will have to shake that woman and say, ‘Wake up,—Charlie is dead!’”